


Sink The Boat

by neonbiscuits (lavieboheme)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, a young boy, abusing tags, ok not really, this is so teenage, when i was
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavieboheme/pseuds/neonbiscuits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wants Sherlock. But he doesn't think he's good enough for him. Sherlock wants John. But he doesn't think he's good enough for him. EXISTENTIAL ANGST! AND SEXUAL FRUSTRATION!<br/>Warnings: Seriously though, I do put them both through rather a lot of emotional pain for this. Lots of UST, *~unrequited love~* and insecurity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just transferring some of my stuff over from LJ, because I'm probably going to up and move to this marvellous place.

It was past one on a weekday night, far past La Maisonette’s opening hours (10am-10pm on weekdays, 10am-11pm on weeknights, no exceptions), yet the little bistro was anything but shut.

Outside, Sherlock tilts his spindly seat backwards, waving a bit of goat’s cheese sourdough sandwich around, bits of lettuce still poking out the sides. His gestures have gotten significantly more expansive over the past half hour; due in part to the almost-gone glass of Chianti sitting on the table and also in part to the presence of the staid blonde man sitting opposite him. He was currently trying to stifle his laughter, but to no avail. “And he didn’t even realise! It’s hardly the first time I’ve nicked something from that pocket of his, but really, after he took such care to put the pencil in his pocket! I walk off with the pencil the first two times he lends one to me-” John snorts with laughter and immediately sets his wine glass down just in case. “-but now he takes extra care to retrieve the pencil from me after I’ve used it! You should have seen his face when he was patting his pockets down, looking for it.”

“And where is it now,then?” John wheezes into his plate of half-eaten al funghi penne pasta. Sherlock holds up one badly-chewed wooden Staedtler with perfect comic timing. John chokes on his new mouthful of pasta, coming close to spitting a mouthful of cream sauce and chewed wheat all over the tablecloth. Sherlock seems to find this side-splittingly hilarious. John swallows hurriedly and can’t help but choke on his laughter as a fresh wave of hilarity overcomes him, the sort that seems to flood over everything else and just when you think it’s gone, it strikes again.

It takes ten minutes before both men are able calm themselves sufficiently, and John smiles at his companion, even as he brushes crumbs off his ridiculously tight shirt. Not a proper date then, but this is so much better, he promises himself. You can’t have him, you know that – but this is as close to having him as anybody will ever get.

Across the table, a cold ache fights its way up Sherlock’s chest as he straightens his shirt. From his peripheral vision, it is obvious that John is smiling kindly at him, fondly even, appreciating his company and being his counterweight. But it’s not enough, fond doesn’t feel like enough. He wants more than fond. But fond is all he’ll have, and fond is all he’ll get. He’ll take all he can get; John gives him more than anybody else has ever done before anyway.

A street lamp flickers, skirting the line between life and death. It breaks the stillness of the air, the reverence of two people held in mutual respect.

“Are you ready to leave?” Sherlock asks. John nods, appreciating his having asked when he already knew – and he was right. A thousand little signs: John stretching in his chair, John pushing his pasta around on a fork, John shifting and fidgeting, John yawning, John’s eyes dreaming of his bed after a long day handling twitchy children and over-anxious mums – John would have bet his bottom dollar Sherlock hadn’t missed any of them, and so they stand together, chairs scraping lightly upon the brick floor.

Christoph waves cheerily from the bistro door, chef and owner of the tiny place. The lights snap off just as Sherlock pulls the taxi door upon for John with a click. He climbs in just as Christoph ascends the stairs to his abode above the bistro, and the vehicle moves off with its customary rumble.

\-------------

John’s mind runs on overdrive all the way back to their flat. Opening doors for him…? He’s never done that before! A brain cell, probably the only one left that isn’t dead with exhaustion or unconscious near the toilet bowl or refusing to budge with sexual frustration, chirps in helpfully: and weren’t you two discussing being gentlemanly earlier this evening? You said you were old-fashioned, being deliberately unspecific and hoping he understood you as liking ‘old-fashioned’ rites such as marriage or ladylike behavior, but, but, but, you were also sneakily hoping he took it that you meant gentlemanly behavior leaves you weak in the knees (don’t bother denying it, it does, when he opened it and motioned for you to get in, your knees were weaker than the tea Sherlock once tried to brew with cold wate- see, he’s in your similes too! Nyeh nyeh nyeh!). At which point he gives up entirely and tries to sink into the cool leather seat.

Logic dictates that if he doesn’t want to get burnt, he should stay far, far away from the brightly burning supernova known as Sherlock Holmes. Over-analysing his behavior to provide a tiny cube of hope that his feelings would be reciprocated will do nothing for him, because a person can only remain buoyant on false hope for so long.

He said he wasn’t interested, you dolt. John grits his teeth and tries to reason with himself. He’s married to his work. He’s work-sexual. (oh my god…) No, the only thing that engages and stimulates his interest sufficiently is murders, the more unorthodox the better.

And even if work wasn’t the only thing that interested him that way (shut up John shut up), why would he want you? You don’t know if he swings that way, John says firmly to the one standing brain cell, which is starting to sway rather unsteadily now.

And even if he did swing that way… (I swear, John H Watson, on pain of death, if you do not stop pursuing this train of thought right now, I will see that you have the worst hangover tomorrow morning!) he wouldn’t want you. “That’s a bit harsh,” a second brain cell peers out to slur helpfully. “you don’t know for sure.”

The worst part is that he doesn’t know for sure, he’s 99.999% sure. But he can’t seem to squash that 0.001%. Sherlock is a genius, the sort that doesn’t require certification because just a few minutes’ interaction with him will leave you unable to deny that fact. He might be a prick, but he’s a genius prick, as Lestrade had admitted one pub night. He’s too good-looking, too smart – he would go looking for people of his caliber, who could match his ability to soar into the heavens easily.

Not you, you know you’re not good enough for him. Don’t try to play with fire when it doesn’t even want to play with you.

John stares out at the passing shadows miserably.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thinky stuff. then wanking

For John, it's starting to hurt just a bit whenever they meet someone new and she, or he, automatically refers to John and Sherlock as a single entity. A couple. A completed puzzle. A molecule of oppositely charged particles held in place by strong bonds.

They're not entirely wrong, you know, in a sense - their partnership has only grown stronger since the day Mike Stamford introduced the two of them. They've fallen into a pattern, where the actions of John prevent Sherlock from over-stepping boundaries which should not be over-stepped, and the actions of Sherlock prevent John from a life lacking in adrenaline surges and the chase. It's like marshmallows, and melted chocolate. They would probably do fine without each other, but there would be something missing.

They also do their part to keep the other from boredom; Sherlock can sometimes be soothed down from gnatty 15-hour days spent tossing and turning on the couch whilst scowling and conducting Wagner, strains of strings and brass trickling out from the headphones cupping his ears. All it took once was for John to come home from work and stand at the threshold grinning, leaning on one leg and whipping out his mobile phone to capture Sherlock's air-conducting antics in full 5.0-megapixel glory. This ended with a full-blown chase around the flat; Sherlock eventually pinning John down and sitting on him while he maneuvered easily through the phone's files, deleting the incriminating evidence.

John hadn't known what to think initially, when the mad run around various objects littering their living room culminated in a decidedly not weightless consulting detective keeping him prone on the floor, breathing heavily while he scrolled with a decisive thumb. It's all a bit gay, the little voice in his head had chimed in. Gay, gay, gay. He's sitting on you while trying to delete a picture you took of him in a compromising position. Gayer than Ricky Martin on helium. Gaaaaaaay.

He supposes Sherlock has shifted his markers of social norms quite a bit. In the next moment they were both laughing at the tiny image of Sherlock waving a pencil around angrily to The Flying Dutchman, the sort of desperate laughter that is but the final barrier from awkwardness.

Whereas for John, he won't tell you this but grumping at Sherlock has become a sort of routine he rather enjoys. Not knowing what sort of shenanigans Sherlock might get up to next keeps him on his toes permanently, and there has not been a work day where the journey home isn't fraught with "oh god I hope I can actually use the oven tonight to heat up that risotto," or, "if he's modified the stove again to turn it into a makeshift bunsen burner I'll bloody kill him," or, "I hope he doesn't use the blue-labelled cups for experiments, my tea tasted a bit funny this morning." The blue-labelled kitchen dishes prevents the worst from happening and after Sherlock had understood human parts in anywhere but the specially marked freezer compartment results in the parts being thrown out, most of what he does becomes nothing if endearing.

Yet, John cannot help but feel a little ache inside and a small but insignificant increase in the rate of his heartbeat whenever someone refers to Sherlock as his significant other. "I'm sure you'll find some activity to keep him occupied otherwise," Mrs Turner had insinuated when John had taken tea with her and Mrs Hudson, to the sounds of gunshots upstairs. "Your boyfriend went that way," a little girl on the corner had pointed out once. Harry was fond of raising her eyebrows mock-suspiciously whenever John brought Sherlock up during their occasional lunch-time meetups.

To behave in such a way in synchronisation with another person that even the closest of relatives believe the both of you share an unequivocal bond. John has few doubts that Scotland Yard has a bet going on whether they are fucking, or not. He has even less doubt that the odds stand at 30-1.

It just stings. It's a painful reminder of what he wants but the other does not, a desire which has not evaporated since the first night John awoke sweat-drenched and lips cracked in a silent scream. The rich tremolo of a Chopin nocturne had started up not a minute later, and as John tilted his head back to stare unseeingly at the ceiling, he'd known he was a goner from there and then onwards.

As if on cue, the caterwauling of a violin bow on the strings of an acoustic guitar cuts through the night (Sherlock'd acquired it at a secondhand store the other day) and a thousand bubbling thoughts niggle at John as he watches the cab drive off, and crawls into bed, curling up in the bed covers, the solo weight of his body increasing the depression tenfold.

\---

It's starting to hurt just a bit whenever an outsider with a dearth of observational skills insinuates that John is his partner in more than one way, and John goes out of his way to deny this. The insinuations matter little to Sherlock; as do the opinions of people in general.

The opinion of John does matter, however, and it's all Sherlock can do to raise an enquiring eyebrow at the offending person while keeping the rest of his face impassive. "Is it that I am of inadequate stock to form a relationship with?" he wants to ask of John, who by this time would be laughing his way through an awkward conversation with the other person, insisting "No, really, we're just flatmates. Nothing more."

It occurs to Sherlock that this is all a bit adolescent, really. It's the equivalent of chucking a fit when someone you'd thought you'd formed an emotional connection with tells you that no, he doesn't actually like you that way, sorry. Sherlock doesn't form emotional connections easily, preferring to keep away from people who would similarly prefer to keep away from him. At uni he had at the most a couple of not-so-close friends, both of whom had drifted away once they'd left, despite promises to keep in touch. One-night stands were all the relationships he ever had, and while he considers himself most certainly not lacking in knowledge about carnal intimacy, he doesn't know the first place to start when it comes to emotional intimacy.

He doesn't know the first place to start when it comes to John.

\---

A half-hour later of sawing away at the guitar, and Sherlock's no closer to the answer. What's he supposed to say? he thinks, as he fingers his way through the cello suites of Bach, the raised frets unfamiliar but not uncomfortable. Does he even want to say anything? He's fond of John, it's true, and all gedanken experiments involving John leaving almost always end in depression.

Would John be interested in members of the same sex, to begin with? (Yes, bisexual with a 90% chance of accuracy, he'd eyed Sebastian up appreciatively when he'd met him, and hadn't been afraid to do so outwardly. Aware of his own sexuality.)

Would John be interested in him? As a- as a- boyfriend? (The first night he'd met him, the one where'd they'd sat in Angelo's - was that a chat-up line he'd used? Surely it was; the social norm is not to pry past sexual preferences unless there's something one wishes to know. 2. He'd started with 'girlfriend', as if hoping for the worst to pass first. 3. He'd shielded it by leading up to the question using a remark of an entirely different topic. Archenemies, unreal lives, real lives, friends, girlfriends - misdirection, all of it. 4. And the quiet interest that had crept into his voice when he'd enquired - "Boyfriend?" Surely that spoke volumes.) Everything pointed to yes then, and then he'd gone and buggered it up.

Stupid, Sherlock, stupid. You shut him out with that "married to your work" line, with all your arrogance, with all that misdirection of your own.

\---

The unconventional handling of Bach stops as quickly as it had begun, and John hears the snap of the living room light switch a few minutes later. He's miserably wide awake, thoughts battering repeatedly at the rapidly weakening fortress of his mind. Tomorrow he'll do something, he promises himself. He'll ask the new receptionist, Mary, out on a date - something he hadn't been on since that whole business with Sarah, and then there was the fake bomb in the pool, and Sherlock tearing the jacket off him, as if he'd cared. Sherlock.

No, Mary. He's gone on far too long on a man that will never share himself with anyone else, and doesn't feel the need to. If somebody was good enough for the consulting genius of 221B Baker Street, it would not be John Watson, with his average intelligence and his below-average height and his above-average brokenness.

But John's fully aware that the painful hardness in his pyjamas was brought about by thoughts of the man a staircase's length away from him. He turns on his side and pushes his pants down, taking himself in hand.

As he comes silently, lips pressed to the soft pillow he's even more acutely aware that the only thoughts in his head are those of the man many levels above him, existing on a plane where human company is of little significance. Unattainable.

 

\---

It's far too early for his bedtime, of course. Sherlock muscles his thoughts back into control, hurriedly rushing to do something else that would distract his brain from pondering more upon the matter. Having slept in until 10 that morning, it was ridiculous to think that he'd be asleep at 11 today. Sherlock checks on the goldfish in the kitchen, makes several notes in the correct logbook, rolls his eyes at the sound of the 'married ones' next doors engaging in sexual intercourse - complete penetration, condom usage, the heavier one tops, he notes absentmindedly.

When 12 rolls around he sets his book down on the kitchen table (Robert A Heinlein this time, a vice of his was always science fiction written in the years past) and yawns. The ping-tinged sky out the window indicates a light shower in the early morning is forthcoming, but otherwise summer weather would prevail tomorrow.

Not bothering to turn the lights on in his room, Sherlock swaps his shirt and trousers for a soft t-shirt and pyjamas pants, noting as he pulls the t-shirt on that it's two sizes too large. It also smells different - tea, antiseptic cream and pen ink, and John.

He supposes it'll have to do until tomorrow, when he can sort the laundry properly (get John to sort the laundry properly, more like).

A quarter of an hour passes and Sherlock is annoyed at his body for refusing to settle down. He has to get up at 430 tomorrow to check on the goldfish (6-hour experiment checks) and note any difference in their swimming patterns.

So he does what he always do when he wants to hurry sleep - he reaches a hand down and palms himself through the thin silk of his pyjama bottoms, rocking against his hand. When he shoves his hand into his pants he's fully hard, and when he comes his self-control cracks. All he can wonder is how it would feel like to have somebody do this for him, not out of lust, not out of reciprocation, but out of love, and the image in his mind is of John, wrapping strong arms around him, nosing his hair quietly and coaxing him into a dreamful sleep.

He finally dozes off half an hour later, plagued by the rather resistant feeling of loneliness.


End file.
